Little Lotte's Tale
by LaPetiteChristine
Summary: The story of the movie told through Christine's point of view. Starts at her father's death. With music from ALW's musical. This is my first fic. Please R&R.
1. A Hopeful Promise

**Little Lotte's Tale**

Chapter 1: A hopeful promise

To be honest, I cannot tell you how or even when it happened quite clearly. It all happened, so fast, a blur which I cannot explain. I am lost and have no idea where to begin this twisted tale, so I will start here.

The year was 1861. I was seven years old. I stood by my father's bedside and watched as he lay dying, his life soon to be taken by the influenza that had struck with dreadful force that year. He pulled me closer to him so I could hear his hoarse last words. His breathing hard, each breath rasped in his chest. Beads of perspiration slowly rolled down his face from the terrible pestilence.

"My dearest petite Christine," he managed to say slowly, "You know I love and care for you, and I regret having to leave you hear like this."

I could not stand him talking like this. _Stay strong, _I told myself. _It will be all right in the end, just keep it all together. _My mind kept telling itself that, yet I knew in my heart it was all a lie. In my mind, I knew my heart had finally won. My eyes started to burn and my vision blurred as large tears formed in my eyes and began to make their way down my cheeks.

"My precious child," he started again, taking my tiny hand in his own cold, clammy one, "Do you remember the stories I told you, the stories of the angel of music?"

I looked into his pale sea foam green eyes, now losing all their lust and joy as death slowly grasped him more and more, turning his eyes dull and hardly recognizable. I nodded, and tried to look away, yet there was something about his gaze that kept my eyes fixed on his, I simply could not bring myself, no matter how much pain it caused me, to look away.

"Do not fear, Christine, I will send the angel of music to you once I am in heaven, child, as I have promised you throughout our lives together. He will come and care for you. Do you believe me?" he asked pleadingly.

I nodded my head and managed to whisper to him, "Yes, Papa."

He reached up weakly and touched my cheek. "Do not fear my little Christine. I love you."

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as the life departed his weak body. I felt his hand go limp and rest beside him on the bed. This couldn't be happening. My world, my life, shattered before my young eyes. My friend and father, one companion, gone. Forever.

A hand came to rest on my shoulder. I turned around to see one of the nuns from our parish, Sister Mary Elizabeth. She offered me a warm smile as a solemn priest walked in and stood over my father's pale corpse. I tried to return her smile, but my eyes remained glued to my father's body lying stiff on the bed.

The priest opened a small book worn with years of use. He found the page he was looking for and began to read off a psalm. He then proceeded to say a prayer, asking to forgive my father for all of his sinning and take him into heaven. When he was finished, I crossed myself reverently like I had been taught to do when I was very young.

I looked out the small window that was in my father's bedroom. I silently walked over to it. I folded my arms and rested my chin on the old wooden ledge. The sun had already gone down now, and twilight was settling in. People rushed home from the small streets in Perros to the warmth and shelter of their homes. Lamplighters started making their rounds, illuminating the old whale oil lamps and drawing moths to the eerie light. I recalled the many stories my father had told me of fairies and other mythical creatures that came out at dusk to dance on the horizon before twilight took over. I remembered when my father had brought me out at night to look upon the fascinating little creatures, and as he pointed them out, I imagined in my mind's eye that I saw them.

"Dear," came a gentle voice from behind me. I had entirely forgotten that the nun was still there, standing behind me. I glanced over to the bed where my father's body had been. Sister Mary Elizabeth read the look on my face and seemed to read my mind. "They took his body down to the mortuary to have it prepared. It's getting late now. Father Brian has already gone back to the church to arrange for your father's funeral."

"Funeral?" I echoed horrified, in a barely audible whisper. My hopes until now were that this was just a terribly horrid dream and nothing wrong, but through this woman's words, my hopes were smothered like a candle's flame in a fierce wind.

"Yes. It should be tomorrow. You should get some rest, it's been a hard day for all of us and we are all exhausted."

With that she led me out of the room and showed me down the hall to my own bedroom. I had lived here my whole life, yet the room seemed strange and alien to me. She helped me out of my daytime dress and into my nightgown. She did this all in silence. Then she walked me over and sat me down at my dresser in front of the small oval mirror. I looked at the few things I had on top of it: a few shells I had found at the beach, a small gold bracelet, a couple of hair ribbons, my hair brush, and a picture of my mother and father with me as a small child. I couldn't remember, I couldn't have been more than two years old. I fingered the picture. I looked every bit like my mother, except for her long, golden blonde hair. My hair was curly and chestnut brown, like my father's. It pained me to look at the picture. My mother had died when I was three years old, yet I can't remember how she went. I barely remember her. My father used to tell me stories, and sometimes I imagine what life would have been had she not died. Now I was alone in the world. I had no one, not even close family. Mary Elizabeth took my hair out of the tight ribbons and brushed it gingerly. She picked up the washcloth out of the water basin and began to wipe my dirty face. I had dirt all over me. I hadn't taken a bath in ages. She led me over to my bed when she seemed satisfied and tucked me under the warm covers and kissing me on the forehead.

"Good night, love," she whispered to me, "I'll be back in the morning to check on you. Sleep well, and don't forget your prayers." With that she shut the door behind her after extinguishing the oil lamp. I lay in bed for what seemed an eternity staring at the ceiling before I slipped into a restless sleep, a world full of unrelenting nightmares.


	2. Sorrowful Echoes

Chapter two: sorrowful echoes

I slowly opened my eyes and slipped at last from the horrid world I had slipped into, only to find myself in one much worse. I looked around my small room and out the grimy windowpane. So far the day had proved to be dank and dismal, with dull gray clouds and constant mist, which kept the town thoroughly soggy.

I pondered at the sounds that came from downstairs. I climbed reluctantly out of the warmth of my bed and opened the door into the hallway. I looked down it reluctantly towards my father's room and thought sadly to myself. Never again would I hear his bright laughter or explicit fairy tales. Never again would I hear sweet violin music waft its way through the house and somehow into the very depths of my soul. I padded over to the staircase and began to walk down the creaky steps.

"Good morning," greeted Sister Mary Elizabeth cheerfully, "I take it you slept alright?"

I nodded. She seemed pleased enough.

"Oh, my dear!" she exclaimed, walking over to me, "You're as thin as a broom handle! Come sit and have some breakfast. Perhaps it'll help to put some meat on those bones of yours."

She hurried me over to the table and plopped me down into one of the plush chairs. I looked around the kitchen table, it seemed surprisingly empty. Ever since my father had been diagnosed, no one had had any time to keep house. Normally there would have been newspapers and sheet music my father had been studying for his violin. I wouldn't call it messy; it had always been a comfortable sort of clutter. The Sister bustled about restlessly before ladling me a portion of porridge and placing it before me. She returned moments later with a spoon, pitcher of cream, and the sugar bowl.

"Eat up now, dear," she said, mixing in a large portion of cream and sugar as if I were a small child and could not do so myself, "it will certainly take quite awhile to get you all cleaned up and presentable."

I looked down solemnly at my porridge and began to stir it a bit before placing it in my mouth. It was sweet, and warm too. I hadn't eaten a decent meal in quite some time, as I couldn't cook for myself and everyone was busy with my father. I eagerly emptied the bowl and handed it to her. She placed it in the sink and began scrubbing it vigorously with a bit of soap. I remained seated at the table.

I watched as she dried it and put it in its place in the cupboard. She turned around when she was finished to face me.

"Now, cleaning you up," she said, taking hold of my arm and leading me up the stairs into my room. She held me at about arm's length and looked me over. I looked down at the dirt caked on my skin and my grimy nails. Her scrutiny lasted for several minutes before she finally said, "well, dear, I think you're about ready for a bath."

She took me down the hall to where our bathing room was. She opened a cupboard and produced a plush bathrobe, which she handed to me.

"Now," she said to me, you undress and put that robe on, and I'll go boil some water for your bath."

With that, she left me alone in the tiny room. I did as I was told, slipping out of my dirty nightgown and putting on the clean towel robe. As I tied the belt around my waist, I noticed something. I was much thinner now than I had been before. I looked in the mirror. Sister Mary Elizabeth was right. I looked terrible, a shell of my former self. Dark circles had formed around my eyes, which were deep set in my face now. Odd shadows made their way across my face where my plump cheeks were now replaced with sharp angular bones. My cheeks had once been rosy, but now I was pale and skeletal looking. My rich brown eyes no longer held happiness or hope, only sadness and grief. I had taken terrible care of myself. Father would have been ashamed of me.

Just then Sister Mary Elizabeth rushed in with a huge pewter pot filled almost to the brim with boiling water. She dumped the contents into the large porcelain bathtub which sat on ornate lions' feet. She rushed out of the room and reappeared a few moments later with another pot of water, this time cold. She also poured this into the large tub. I watched as swirls of steam rose up from the water and swirled around the room, fogging up the mirror and small window. When she had finished all of this, she wiped her brow and sat down on a nearby stool.

When she seemed to have caught her breath again, she stood up and walked over to me.

"Could you get into the tub, dear?" she panted.

I swallowed and nervously nodded. I was suddenly extremely uncomfortable. But I obliged, after all she had done for me, the least I could do was agree when she was only trying to help me. I slipped out of the robe and into the warm, soothing water. She got up from her stool and went over to the cabinet by the mirror and began rummaging through it.

She emerged clutching a bar of soap and a sharp-toothed comb. I gulped. It looked painful. She took the washcloth from the side of the tub and moistened it in the water beside me. After rubbing a bit of soap on the coarse fabric, she began to scrub my body vigorously. I watched as months of dirt and grime dissipated off of my body, turning the water dull and murky. She then proceeded to dunk my head back in the water, wetting my hair. As I sat up, I felt the weight of my wet curls pull my head down and stick to my back. Again she scrubbed vigorously, except this time in my hair. She pulled out the small comb and began to pull and prod at my thick rat's nest, with no success at first, until she had finally gotten all of the tangles out, after combing half of the hair out of my head. A sharp searing pain went into my head; it felt like a large needle was digging into my scalp. She cleaned the clumps of hair out of the comb, and proceeded once again to prod at my skull. I let out a sharp cry of pain as she did this.

"I'm sorry dear," she said to me, "but the lice on your head seem to be an epidemic. This is the only way to get rid of them."

I nodded and bit my lip, trying to endure the immense pain, but to no avail. I once again felt hot tears running down my cheeks. I looked down at the murky water surrounding me. There were tiny streams of blood from all of the work she had done on my scalp. I whimpered.

"There," she sighed, "I think that's about good."

I let out a small sigh of relief as she helped me out of the porcelain tub and onto the small rug. She quickly grabbed a towel from nearby and rubbed me dry until I was pink and warm. She stopped suddenly as she heard a sharp knock on the door downstairs.

"I'll be right back," she said as she left me once again in the bathroom as she answered the door. I walked to the tiny door of the room and peered into the hallway. I listened intently as Sister Mary Elizabeth undid the lock on the door and opened it with a creak.

"Oh, hello Father Brian," she greeted the person at the door.

"Good day, Sister," said the priest's voice.

"Well? Have you arranged for the…the…"

"Yes, it's all been taken care of. It should be tomorrow morning. Where is the child now?" He inquired.

"Oh, she's upstairs. She's doing quite well, actually. She ate breakfast this morning and I just finished cleaning her up."

"Very well, then. Good day," he said as he left.

"Good bye!" she called after him as she shut the door behind him. She sighed as she turned to walk up the stairs again. "Christine!" she called out to me, "Christine!"

"Yes, Sister?" I replied, wrapping the towel tighter around myself and stepping into the hallway to face her as she came up the old staircase.

"Ah," she said, "there you are. Well, Father Brian has arranged for your father's funeral to be tomorrow morning."

I nodded and looked sadly down at the floorboards. She put her arm around me and let me into my room, where she proceeded to go through my wardrobe while I sat on the bed and watched her intently. She pulled out one of my older dresses and handed it to me.

"Would you mind putting that on, dear?" she asked me.

I nodded as I slipped out of my towel while she continued looking through my wardrobe. I put the dress on, a bit course, but not bad.

"Well," she said, turning to face me, "it is quite late in the day, almost noon already!" she said, pulling out a pocket watch and showing it to me. "Are you hungry?"

"A little bit," I answered. Father had taught me to never be too greedy.

"Of course," she said, greeting me with a kind smile, "could you keep yourself busy for awhile while I prepare you something to eat?"

I nodded.

"Very well, then. I'll call you when it's ready. Here, dear like this," she said, reaching for the towel and wrapping it around my shoulders, "that way you won't catch a cold." And with that she bustled out of the room and down the creaky stairs into the kitchen.

I stood in my room for a while, listening to her move around in the kitchen below. I crept over to the staircase and peered down below to make sure she was busy and well occupied. I backed up a bit and tiptoed down the hall to my father's room. I looked around. He had a wardrobe, a bed, a dresser, and a few pictures on the wall. I walked over to his dresser. He had little on it, a few yellowed pieces of music he had been poring over, a picture of me, and a picture of my mother.

I walked over to a corner of the room where he normally practiced his violin. Sheets of music lay in disorganized piles on the floor. Two music stands stood in his room, one short one, and one slightly taller. I remember standing at the shorter one some nights when he would play his violin so beautifully and ask me to sing along with it. Before we had come to Perros, we had been beggars, wandering the streets and earning money through our music. After my mother had died at our small house in Sweden, my father couldn't bear to be around so many memories of her.

"I just can't take it, Christine," he admitted to me one evening, "it's just so hard with so many memories of her." With that he began to cry. It was then we became wanderers. Mamma Valerius, as I grew to call her, discovered my father one afternoon in Paris. Paris had been one of my father's favorite cities. He loved all the colorful sights and sounds, all the people busily crowding the streets. One day my father and I were at the market, when a lady dressed in finer attire approached us.

"Monsieur," she said to my father, who stopped playing his violin as I stopped singing and looked up at then. I couldn't have been more than four years old at the time.

"Yes, Madame, how may I help you?" he replied.

"Well, you play the violin splendidly. And your daughter," she said, turning to look down at me, "has the voice of an angel."

"Thank you, Madame." My father replied politely.

"Sorry to bother you, but has anyone hired you yet?"

"Hired me?" he asked, quite surprised.

"Yes, as a personal musician. I'm prepared to offer you one thousand francs a month and room and board, I would also happily oblige to having your daughter educated."

My father just stood there, staring at her, mouth slightly ajar.

"Well?"

"Oh, um, of course," said my father, returning to his senses.

"Splendid! What's your name, Monsieur?"

"Gustave. Gustave Daaé. And this is my daughter, Christine."

"It's a pleasure, Monsieur. Do you have any belongings?"

My father reached behind him and produced a small suitcase, which held all of our belongings. He also packed up his violin and music in its case, then turned to face her.

"Very well, Monsieur," she said, gesturing to one of her servants to take our belongings, "follow me, my carriage is this way."

My father took my hand and led me along. We lived at Mamma Valerius's for a few years, and she treated me very well, as a mother would have. Our stomachs were always full, and she showered me with a variety of different toys. Whenever I ripped my dress, she insisted on buying me a new one. After living with her for a while, my father had gotten back on his feet and had enough money to support himself and buy us a cozy little house in Perros.

I returned to the present now, and continued to look through my father's belongings. I looked over to the very corner, and tucked safely there was my father's violin case. I hesitantly picked up the odd shaped object and carried out into the middle of the room. I undid the hatch and opened the case with caution. Inside lie my father's beautiful violin, still in perfect condition. He had always polished it to make sure the mahogany gleamed with incredible brilliance. I ran my fingers along the elegant curves and plucked a few strings. The tears started rolling down my face at a steady pace once again. I carefully picked up the violin and clutched it against my body, as if I held it tight enough I could somehow reach out and touch my father. Sobs racked mercilessly from my body, but not just my body, it seemed, but somewhere deep within my soul.

"Christine!" Came a faint calling from downstairs, "Christine, dear! Where are you?"

I heard a creaking as Sister Mary Elizabeth came up the stairs, and when she opened the door and found me, I barely even noticed. I did not turn from my father's precious violin to look at her.

"Oh, Christine," she said, hurrying over to where I lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, still coddling the violin protectively. She took me in her arms, where I sobbed until I could no longer.

* * *

_Sorry I have to leave you with such a bad ending to this chapter, but if I wrote any longer, it would be way too long and just drag on and on. Thank you to my lovely reviewers! I love you all so much!_

_Nade-Naberrie: Wow, thanks so much! I didn't realize it, probably just because I'm being modest, as usual. LOL. Thanks again._

_RenegadeMule: Gee, Ryan, could you be any more personal? LOL. jk. Thanks for reading and reviewing, even though you think phantom sucks even though you've never seen it. Oh well, you'll be seeing it and sound of music soon enough. Mua ha ha! btw, it's a fic, not a book! thanks for reviewing though!_

_TheHatEatingPossum: Thanks for the review! Bleck, I know, I caught that mistake after I had posted it. sigh I'll just have to go back and fix it later. I don't know if I'm just gonna stick to the original story or add some story lines of my own, but there are a few holes where I'll have to step in and add a plot or two. I'll try to update soon!_

_Thanks again everyone!_


	3. miserable hopes

Chapter 3: Miserable Hopes

I opened my eyes warily. Where was I? What time was it? How long had I been sleeping? Then I remembered. The violin. I lay on my bed and looked around me. Sister Mary Elizabeth sat in the chair by my bedside, working on a bit of embroidery. When she realized I was awake, she said,

"Oh, hello, dear. It's a good thing to see you awake. You gave me quite a fright there for awhile."

I looked at her, baffled.

"What, what happened?" I asked her eagerly.

"Oh, I found you over in your father's room when I came to get you to tell you your lunch was ready," she explained, setting her embroidery aside, "when I walked in, you were collapsed on the floor, clutching your father's violin, sobbing hysterically. I came in and took you in my arms, and after awhile you just cried yourself to sleep."

"Oh," I replied, a bit confused.

"I came in here and put you on the bed. I was pretty worried about you. You've been asleep for nearly two hours."

"What time is it?" I asked her.

"Nearly three o'clock," she stated simply.

I propped myself up on my elbow and examined the sheets. We sat there in a moment of silence while she rocked steadily back and forth in her rocking chair.

"Are you hungry?" she asked me.

I jerked my head up to look at her. She had a kind face, and looked to be in her early sixties. She had brilliantly blue eyes, and a kind smile. Even behind the many wrinkles that encompassed her face, you could see that when she was younger she was very beautiful. I wondered why she had chosen to become a nun instead of get married. I nodded halfheartedly.

"Alright then," she said rising from her chair and turning towards the door to leave, "I'll go get something for you to eat."

She walked from the door and closed the door with a slight click. I stared absently out the small window in my room. The weather had slightly improved, but not by much. The same gray, groggy storm clouds still loomed ominously overhead. I pulled back the bedding and looked down upon myself. I was still in my dress; Mary Elizabeth hadn't changed me out of it.

I slid out of bed and stalked over to my vanity, my cold feet slapping on the hardwood floor. I looked around my room for my pair of slippers, and upon finding them, thrust my feet into their warm and soft embrace. I sighed, that was better. I looked in the mirror atop the dresser, at my mane of tangles and snarls. Even after Sister Mary Elizabeth had so painstakingly done her best to tame my wild rats' nest. Oh well, at least the lice were gone. I opened one of the small drawers and rummaged through it until I found my sharp-toothed comb. I winced just at the sight of it.

I slowly raised the comb and held it poised just above my head. I gulped at the thought of what I was about to do. I found a place on the back of my head and stuck the comb in. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the effect as I slowly began to pull back. I let out a sharp cry of pain as the comb caught one of my many snarls. I pulled harder, but only succeeded in wrenching my neck back along with the comb. I inhaled short breaths and whimpered slightly as the sharp comb inevitably hit a particularly stubborn section. I struggled with it, yet however hard I pulled; the comb was too entwined to get out, unless I wished to go bald by pulling half of my hair out.

I sighed and began work on another section. After what seemed about a half an hour, it seemed like I was free of the awful tangles that had taken up residence in my hair. I ran my fingers through my long curly hair, just to make sure. I looked in the mirror; my hair was still frizzy and poofy. I ransacked my drawers until I found the small vile of botanical oil. I opened the small lid and breathed in the sweet aroma. It had belonged to my mother, that much I remember; and every day she would put a little bit in her hair and on her neck and just a bit on her clothes. I recall running into her warm embrace and breathing in her sweet scent of lavender and roses. Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked them back as I poured a bit of the oil into my hands and rubbed them together and smoothed them through my hair.

"Now Christine," my mother had once told me while she sat at her vanity and prepared herself, "you must never wear too much, or your skin and hair will become too oily and smell too strong."

"Yes, mama," I had replied watching her apply the oil caringly to her delicate features. She took a little from her hand and rubbed it gently over my own neck. I breathed it in deeply and looked up adoringly at my mother. She offered me a warm smile and took me up in her arms in a warm hug.

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I looked back fondly upon that memory and into my vanity mirror. I sat down heavily in the stool before it and folded my arms in front of me. I put my head down to rest before me and let the words weigh down heavily upon me.

_Alone. No one there for me._

I sat up at the sound of Mary Elizabeth's voice.

"Christine, dear!" she yelled from down the stairs. It seemed, no matter how loud she yelled, her voice never got hard, always retained that soft and gentle side of it. "Your lunch is ready!"

I quickly pulled out my silver handled soft boar bristle brush and ran it over my curls to make sure they were smooth enough. Wiping the excess oils on the skirt of my dress, I rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

Upon walking into the small kitchen, I saw a bowl of soup set on the table at my place, large curls of steam lazily making their way out of the bowl and dissolving into the air.

I sat down lazily in the hard wooden chair and looked down at the contents of the bowl. Soup, and split pea by the looks of it. I scowled slightly at it, the corners of my mouth pulled taut in a slight frown. I wasn't particularly fond of split pea soup.

"Is something wrong dear?" I heard the Sister's voice behind me. I looked up at her kind face, bordering worry and disappointment.

"No," I whispered meekly as I picked up the spoon she had set beside my bowl. Seeming content with this, she walked away to busy herself with another task and leave me to my lunch.

I gazed into the small bowl at the liquid inside of it. I stirred it absentmindedly for a few moments before I took a spoonful and raised it to my lips. I put it inside my mouth and moved it around delicately with my tongue before swallowing it down. I did this with the rest of it until the bowl was empty.

I quickly got up from the table to bring my bowl to the sink, and was startled to find Mary Elizabeth there, gazing out the small window. I had hardly noticed her. Had she been standing there the whole time? When she noticed me scrutinizing her, she quickly came to her senses and acted as if nothing had happened at all.

She brushed her hands on her skirts before taking my bowl from me with a polite "Thank you, dear", and heartily scrubbed the bowl in the small sink. I started to wander in the next room when she spoke to me.

"Oh, Christine!" she said, grabbing my attention.

I turned around to face her.

"I was wondering if you would mind going out today. I have a few quick errands to run, and I'm a bit hesitant about leaving you here by yourself."

I pondered this for a second before giving her my answer. "Okay," I said, nodding my head and turning to leave the room.

"Alright then. Go get your coat on and we'll go as soon as I'm done tidying up the kitchen."

I turned and left the room, heading towards the stairs and up into my bedroom. I walked over to my wardrobe and looked inside of it. I leafed through the various articles of clothing, coughing a bit on the musty dust smell. I pulled out an old, coarse gray wool sweater with large buttons and pulled it on, feeling the rough fabric pass over my skin. Fumbling with the awkward buttons, I made my way out of my room and down the stairs.

When I reached the doorway, I saw Sister Mary Elizabeth standing there, ready to leave and waiting for me. Upon seeing me, she smiled her gentle smile and greeted me.

"Oh, hello dear. Are you ready to leave?"

I nodded slowly and followed her out into the fog. Once we were outside on our front step, Mary Elizabeth turned around, pulled an old fashioned key out of her handbag, and locked the door behind us.

It was still quite foggy and cloudy, although it was not raining anymore.

"Where are we going?" I wondered aloud, breaking the silence between us.

"The seamstress. We have to have you fitted for a dress for your father's funeral tomorrow," she replied.

"Oh," I said quietly to myself as we continued to trudge along the small gravel road into the town. As we reached the main street, Mary Elizabeth took my hand so I would not get lost in all of the confusion. She led me along like an obedient horse, through the jumble of people and past all the horses and carriages the upper class used as transportation.

When we reached the small seamstress shop, Mary Elizabeth pulled open the door and ushered me inside. I felt a warm gust of air rush over me as I stepped into the small, cozy room.

A young girl, who could be no more than fourteen, walked out from the back room and stood behind the counter to greet us. She stood at about average height, and had striking features, from her golden blonde hair to her sea green eyes. She reminded me severely of my mother.

"Hello Sister. How may I help you?" She asked in a kind, firm voice.

"Oh, hello Adrienne. Is your mother in? I need some fittings for a dress."

"Yes, she's in the back now. I'll go get her for you."

A tall woman with piercing dark eyes and her dark hair piled up on top of her head in a tight bun emerged from the back room, standing tall and proper.

"Good day, Denise," Mary Elizabeth greeted her.

"Good day, Sister," she acknowledged, a slight smile making its way over her sharp features. "Adrienne tells me you need some fittings for a dress. What kind of dress, exactly?"

"A funeral dress for Christine here," she said, putting one of her arms around my shoulder.

"Oh yes, of course. Well, if you'll kindly stand on that stool there. Adrienne, would you mind taking her measurements for me while I talk to Sister Mary Elizabeth?"

The girl Adrienne nodded, taking my hand and leading me towards the stool that stood slightly in the corner of the room. She disappeared into the back room once again, and when she emerged she had pulled her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, carrying a small measuring tape. She took my hand once again and helped me step onto the stool.

She worked in silence for a few moments before speaking to me. "I'm sorry to hear about your father. I never knew him, but people talked about him often in the town. He was a violin player, right?"

I nodded solemnly. What had people said of my father? As if she had the power to read my mind, Adrienne spoke again.

"People used to say that he would play beautifully. And they spoke of you as well. Said you had a voice to rival the angels themselves," she said this with a slight smile as she continued to take my measurements, constantly dipping her quill in the inkwell and writing the measurements down. "My parents used to take me down by the shore," she continued, "and once we passed by your window, and I heard your father playing and you singing. It seemed to seep into my soul it was so lovely."

She sighed heavily as she stood up and faced me. I looked at her with imploring eyes. She simpered at me, most likely out of sympathy as she helped me off of the stool.

We made our way up to the counter where the two women stood talking.

"Mother," Adrienne addressed her mother, "I have Christine's measurements."

"And how long will it be until the dress is ready?" Mary Elizabeth asked Denise.

Adrienne handed her mother the measuring tape, along with the parchment. She pored over it for a moment before producing an answer.

"It will be ready by tomorrow," she told Sister Mary Elizabeth.

"Alright then. How much do I owe you?" asked Mary Elizabeth.

"Thirty francs," she answered promptly.

Mary Elizabeth opened her handbag once more and produced an envelope, from which she took out the franc bills and handed them to Denise.

"Good day then. See you tomorrow!" She said as we turned to leave.

"Good bye!" Mary Elizabeth said as we walked towards the door.

As I turned to look behind me, I saw Adrienne waving at me.

"Good bye, Christine!" She said, "_Bon courage._ Good luck."

And then we were out in the busy streets again. We walked along down towards the butcher and the market.

We went to the butcher's where we picked up some chicken, and to the market where Mary Elizabeth selected several potatoes and some soft baby green spinach chutes. When her errands were finished, we took an alternate route, one that went by the seashore. While we trudged along, I looked at the mighty old oak that stood beside the road. I ran to it and embraced it, tracing my fingers along the bumpy old trunk. I looked around the other side and found the initials "L. L." Or "Little Lotte". I remembered when those had been carved there. I was out on my way to the shore with Raoul, when we had stopped by the tree to rest. He unexpectedly drew out his pocketknife and carved the initials in the trunk.

I had immediately collapsed into a hysterical heap, sobbing maniacally while he tried his best to comfort me, confused at what had set me off so easily. When I finally returned to my senses, I had scolded him for doing such a thing to a tree, insisting that it was living and it had feelings to; and by carving something in it its soul had been damaged. He simply looked at me bewildered, but laughed it off and took my hand and led me on.

I recalled that memory fondly, tracing the carved initials with my index finger. I sighed and returned to the path, quickening my pace to keep up with the Sister. Upon returning home, she immediately began work on supper. I helped however I could to busy myself, fetching water for boiling or wood for the potbelly stove. She prepared a lovely dinner of chicken prepared with fresh herbs, small, boiled red potatoes, and spinach salad, which she made olive oil vinaigrette for. After dinner, I helped her tidy up the kitchen and build a fire in our sitting room.

While she rocked steadily back and forth in her rocking chair, continuing her embroidery, I looked through the bookcase at some old book we had come to own over the years. Many were musical scores that my father had learned to play, and I pulled out one of his favorites, _Faust._ Thumbing through the old worn pages, I pored over the music intently.

My father had always told me that someday I would play the great leading role of Margherita. That someday, I would become a prima donna at one of the greatest opera houses in the world, perhaps even the world renowned Opera Populaire. He told me that with the right instruction from the angel of music, I would awe all who heard me with my voice. He told me I must never let the angel of music leave me. I promised him that I wouldn't. And now, I silently wondered to myself, praying to my deceased father in my mind.

"_Papa, you are in heaven now,"_ I prayed to myself silently in my head, _"and my angel has still not come to me. The angel you promised me. The angel of music. Where is he, Papa?"_

I did not notice as a large tear rolled lazily down my cheek and fell, leaving a temporary stain on the sacred page. Mary Elizabeth looked up at me, concern spreading across her face like a shadow.

"Christine, dear," she said, bringing me from my reverie, "are you alright? Perhaps you need rest now. Come, I'll show you to bed. It' been a long day for me as well; and you need your rest for tomorrow, your father's funeral is early in the morning," she regarded me kindly.

Setting her embroidery aside and rising from her rocking chair, she came over to my place on the floor and helped me up. I reluctantly set the book aside and followed her upstairs while she led me by the hand. She lit an oil lamp on my bedside table, and pulled out my nightshift from its place in my wardrobe. After she helped me change out of my day dress and

folded neatly and placed it back in the dresser, she helped me into bed, tucking the warm sanctuary of covers around me. She kissed my forehead, bid me good night, and extinguished the oil lamp before leaving my room. I was left, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling. I tossed and turned when I finally tumbled into a realm of nightmares, screaming in my sleep, my father's death plaguing my mind like an incurable disease. I dreamed I would be left alone for all eternity, thrown into a black pit of loneliness and despair. No angel. No Father. Alone.

* * *

_Hi! Sorry it's been so long since I last updated! I had terrible writers' block, and had to rewrite this chapter. Not my best, but better than before. Hope you all liked it. Thank you all for reviewing, and be sure to drop another review for this chapter, I'd really appreciate feedback!_

_Lilly-Billy: Thanks for reading and reviewing, I'll try to write more!_

_Chrissy: Thanks, I'm flattered you took the time to read it. Hope you get around to reading the rest soon!_

_Silvia Broome: Thanks for the review. Yes, it is rather unoriginal, but I didn't know what else to do, so I decided to try my hand at this. Hope you liked it._

_HatEatingPossum:Thanks for reading, I hope you do get an image of Christine's childhood. I'll try to update more, but I've been in a bit of a fog lately when it comes to writing._

_RenegadeMule: Ryan, please at least read it! Geez, we didn't get you this time! But it's not over! You WILL watch phantom AND sound of music soon enough! Mua ha ha!_

_Nea:Thanks, no I don't use a thesaurus. Should I? lol, anyway, thanks for reading and I hope all is going well with your fic._

_Nade-Naberrie: Thanks, and it's a good thing you know me well. Yes, I am the age I claim to be, as insane as it may seem. Ha! I got you to pity her! I win! lol, this is before the little incident at the opera house. She should get there soon, I hope. Anyway, thanks again._

_Thank you again to all of my reviewers! And by the way,I leave for Australia in two weeks, and I'll be gone for about three weeks. I'm in a good writing mood now, so I hope to get at least one or two updates in before I leave. I'm not making any promises though!_

_Always,_

_LePetiteChristine_

_And btw, if you have any ideas, you can email me or my screename for aim is also goldenfaridust, and my yahoo messenger name is lapetitechristine. Let me know about your ideas!_


	4. A Haunting Premonition

Chapter three: A Haunting Premonition

_I sat up lazily, but suddenly lay back down. My chest hurt immensely, my lungs burned like fire. The effort of sitting up had drained my strength and made my head spin and throb intensely._

_What had happened? And where on earth was I? Certainly not in the security or warmth my bed provided. Wincing against the pain, I sat up and propped myself against a hard wall behind me as I took in my surroundings._

_It appeared to be an alley of some sort; and ominous, unfriendly alley. I looked down at my dress. The once colorful fabric was faded and worn, and grungy and torn. I passed a hand tentatively through my hair, only to find it matted and impossibly tangled. Passing a hand over my body, I felt the caked on dirt and the itch of the many lice that infested and swarmed over my skin. I shuddered, revulsion rapidly spreading like a wild fire in a dry forest. I tried once again to stand up, only to have my knees give way beneath me; leaving me falling hard into the stagnant water on the cold cobblestone, banging my head on the wall behind me. A metallic taste filled my mouth as I realized I had bit my tongue._

_I inhaled a deep raspy breath. I need help immediately. Several of my ribs were broken and God knew what sort of pestilence ran through my body mercilessly after being in this dank, cold, alley for so long._

_A putrid smell wafted through the air, burning my nostrils as I inhaled it. It was horrid, like a mixture of alcohol, smoke, and sewer stench. I swallowed hard against the bile that rose and choked me menacingly in my throat. I gulped for air, but the terrible miasma filled my lungs instead._

_I fell forward onto all fours and vomited the contents of my weak stomach; then went into dry heaves, realizing I was probably starving and had not eaten in days. The few still intact ribs I could feel through my dress confirmed this haunting revelation. Whether it was sickness, cold, or starvation, death would come soon enough. All I had to do was wait, and I would be unleashed from my suffering._

_I needed help. But from whom? All of the windows that loomed overhead were dark and lifeless. A woman of the streets stood farther down, calling out to a man. Selling her body for a living, to put food in her mouth. Or perhaps she had children to feed. Scanning the area, I saw an extremely drunk man walk by, but I dismissed the thought of his help immediately. That man would not help me. He would most likely harm me further, possibly even rape me. A man with a peg leg limped by, his uneven walking and wooden leg clicking along on the slick cobblestones and echoing off of the alley walls. Then a man pushing a cart walked by, perhaps he would help me?_

_I crawled through the grimy gutters towards where he was walking._

"_Monsieur," I said in a barely audible whisper._

"_Get away from me, scoundrel! I'll have none of your begging! Git!"_

_He smacked me with the back of his hand, forcing me to fall in a disheveled heap in the gutter. I watched him as he hurried away anxiously down the street._

_There was nothing to do now. Without help, I would surely die. I lay back, arching my neck and back towards the sky, praying for God to take me quickly as I fingered the tiny crucifix around my neck. All there was to do now was wait for my death to descend upon me._

I sat up in a cold sweat, my breathing heavy and my pulse racing. Frantically looking around me, I realized that I was safe in my room. I mopped my brow a bit, pushing back the curls, which clung to the moisture. Sitting up to look out the window, I looked down at my nightshift, which was soaked from my perspiration. The sun had still not come out, and it was as gray and gloomy as yesterday, although a bit darker since it was earlier in the morning.

I dared not go back to sleep and enter the nightmare world I had entered, so I pulled on a robe and made my way into the lofty hall. Shivering a bit, I tiptoed cautiously towards the stairs, as if I might wake a sleeping child if I stepped on the wrong board.

After the descent, I went into the cold living room, where the hearth had burned warmly the previous night. I looked up at the old grandfather clock. Half past five. It might be awhile before Mary Elizabeth got here. I sat down on the sofa by the window and thought about my awful nightmare.

Was it a sign? Was something like that actually going to happen to me? I prayed to God silently that it would not. Would I be reduced to selling my body, becoming a prostitute, to keep myself alive? Or would I die first in that dingy hellhole I had seen in my dream wasteland?

"_Please, Papa," _I prayed out loud in a whisper, _"please, send me an angel now. Send me my angel of music."_

I snapped my head up as the sound of a key turning in a lock grabbed my attention. The door opened, letting in a slight draft, and I looked up to see Sister Mary Elizabeth in the doorway. She rubbed her hands together, replaced the key in her large maroon handbag, hung up her coat on a nearby rack, and turned in my direction.

"Oh, hello Christine," she said, the surprise apparent in her voice and face, "I didn't expect you to be up this early," she said, pulling her gloves off and putting them in her bag before turning to face me once more. "Couldn't you sleep?"

I stared at her for a moment, my mouth agape. Should I tell her the truth? Contemplating this, I finally worked out a meek, "No," immediately casting my eyes to the floor and examining the boards after supplying her with an answer. She seemed satisfied enough.

"Hmm," she said as she walked through the room and towards the kitchen. I now saw that besides her handbag, she was carrying a box and a canvas bag. I eagerly followed her, wondering what the contents of the bag and the box were.

When she reached the kitchen, she walked over and placed all of her things on the table, pushing her handbag to the opposite side. She picked up the box and examined it, before placing it on the table before me. I looked up at her, then down at the box. It was a plain brown box, and it felt coarse and homemade. There was a single piece of twine tied around it, probably to hold it together.

"Go ahead, it's your dress. I picked it up from the seamstress this morning on my way over," she said, bustling around the kitchen now.

I slowly undid the twine and pulled the lid of the box off. Pulling back the tissue paper that covered it, I glimpsed at my new dress. It was black, for my father's funeral. I carefully lifted the material out of the box and held it before me.

"Oh Christine," came Mary Elizabeth's voice behind me, "it's beautiful, but if you wouldn't mind, I would feel better if you took it out of the kitchen, so you won't spill any food on it," she said, unloading the contents of her canvas bag, which were a bottle of milk and a pastry bag. "I'll fix your breakfast, and call you when it's ready," she smiled at me as I left the room, clutching the box to my chest.

I walked up to my room and set the box on my bed, pulling the lid off once more. As I took the dress out and held it to my body, a small piece of paper fluttered gracefully to the floor. I picked it up and observed it. It was only a mere scrap, with a note scribbled on it.

"_Christine, remember, have strength. Bon courage, good luck," _the note said. I looked down to the bottom to see whom it was from. It had Adrienne's signature at the bottom. I folded it up discretely and tucked it away inside of my vanity drawer.

Once again I returned to the dress where I had laid it on my bed. I looked into the box to make sure it was empty, and pulled out the gauzy black veil. I then went in search of black shoes, and after I had found some, I heard Mary Elizabeth calling me for breakfast.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I found Mary Elizabeth waiting for me. She smiled at me, and examined me, frowning at my sodden nightshift and hesitantly reaching out to touch it as I stepped off of the bottom step.

"My dear, your nightshift is positively soaked! Did something happen to you?" she exclaimed.

I felt her gaze upon me as I studied the floorboards.

"Christine?" She continued.

I looked up at her and felt my eyes go as wide as saucers. I don't believe she really intended to make me feel nervous, but somehow I felt like my tongue was made of lead, and my feet were nailed to the floor, preventing me from fleeing.

"I, um," I stuttered, "I guess I got a little too hot last night." I finally managed, perhaps a little too quickly.

She nodded, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she stood upright and wiped her hand on her dress before turning to me again.

"Your breakfast is ready," she said, regaining her cheery demeanor as she walked into the kitchen.

I followed, taking a seat at the table where the place was set. Before me sat a croissant on an ornate little dish and a tall frothy glass of milk. It looked wonderful. I picked up the pastry, still warm, and held it between my hands before tearing it in half and taking a generous bite of the smaller portion. Downing a swig of the milk, I felt the cool refreshing liquid run down my throat, and realized from the sweet taste that it must be goat's milk. Mary Elizabeth turned around from tidying to observe me and quickly her face fell for a second.

"I'm sorry dear," she said, placing a jar of orange marmalade and a butter knife on the table with a clink, "I almost forgot some jam for your croissant,"

"Oh," I said, a bit surprised, "thank you."

After a bit of a struggle, I managed to get the jar open and dipped the butter knife in and spread a thick coat of marmalade on the fluffy pastry. When I had finished the last bites of the croissant and the last few gulps of milk, Mary Elizabeth cleared my plate and glass and told me to get ready for the funeral.

Dread suddenly gripped me, and I nodded absently before leaving the kitchen and trudging up the stairs to my room. As I pulled on an undergarment, I felt the hot tears run down my cheeks again. I pulled open my vanity drawer and pulled out an intricately embroidered handkerchief to wipe my eyes on. After I pulled my dress over my head and laced up my shoes, I pulled my hair back neatly and tied it with a black hair ribbon, which I had to rummage through my vanity to find. Draping the gauzy black veil over my head and looking myself in the mirror one last time before we left, I then turned to the small door and stepped outside into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar behind me.

I walked down the old stairs and through the front sitting room to where the door was. Leaning all my weight against it, I waited until I heard the Sister's footsteps approaching. She simpered slightly before taking me into her arms for a moment. I breathed in her welcoming scent of rosemary before she released me and took my chin in her hand.

"Chin up, dear," she said, holding my face so I could look her in the eyes, "we'll get through this, don't you worry."

She sighed deeply before picking up her large handbag from where she had placed it on the floor and turning to face the door. I reluctantly turned around as she opened the door, and we stepped out into the frigid morning air and the few rays of the sun that had managed to permeate the clouds. After fidgeting with the lock, Mary Elizabeth secured the house and took my hand as we trudged down the sodden path towards the black coach that would take us to the cemetery. As I felt the horses' hooves move rhythmically with the swaying of the coach, I thought of what loomed ahead: my father's funeral.

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_A/N: The only reason I'm still writing this story is because my one reviewer, Nade-Naberrie, won't let me stop. It's rubbish, I know, and no one is reading or reviewing it. But oh well. There are worse things in life, I suppose._


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